Trust and Lies
by picturesofabsence
Summary: "If I hadn't been so caught up in the romance of the story, I would have seen it. Like you did." A Linchpin post-ep, in which Castle muses on his muses, and secrets come out. Spoilers for 4x16


"Come on Castle, I'll give you a ride home in my CIA pimped ride." Castle smiles at that, and his buoyancy lasts most of the journey. Kate feels the familiar mix of annoyance and affection at his excitement over the heated seats, the bluetooth stereo. He falls silent as they approach his street, though, and she knows who he's thinking about, because she is too. She feels unsettled by her own petty jealousy – she was immature, she knows, and it grates against the seriousness of the situation now - she can't separate what was judge of character from a threat to a claim over him she doesn't have.

They've sat parked in silence for too long, they turn to each other and Castle speaks before she can.

"You wanna come up? Help me try and convince my daughter the NYPD has filled their quota for amateur crime fighters." At this point, she's run out of reasons why not.

But the loft is empty when they get up there, and they settle on either end of the sofa with coffee in hand, leaving a gap between them as if the magnet pull might tear them apart.

"There's no way you could have known, Castle, about her."

He looks up at her. "You never liked her." It's almost an accusation.

"Yeah, well." It wasn't because I thought she was a traitor to her country.

"This keeps happening to me, though. What kind of author must I be if I'm such a bad judge of character?" It's a rare moment of honest insecurity about his writing, his being, that she has to look away. Suddenly she hates this, hates that he follows her and sees the ugly, traitorous, murderous side of humanity, hates all the people that have betrayed his open trust and his good heart because she needs him. A selfish, savage need for him to be next to her and smiling. He's not smiling now, but she doesn't know how to fix it, and so she plays it safe and brings it back to herself.

"I'm not sure I'm any better. I've not had much luck with mentor figures, in case you hadn't noticed." She gives a wry smile.

"That's different. Montgomery, Royce, they were good men. Really good. They cared about you and protected you. They're good men who made bad mistakes, and they atoned for them. But Sophia, Damien – the mistake was mine. And if I hadn't been so caught up in the romance of the story, I would have seen it. Like you did." Beckett chokes with sorrow and gratitude - gratitude for this wonderful, stupid, stubborn man who gives her so much, who can't help but pour love over her with his words.

"Castle, you were hardly naïve. There is no way you could have known your ex-girlfriend was a KGB sleeper agent since before you knew her. That's a crazy theory, even for you. It's not a bad thing that you trust people when I don't. Sometimes we need that. Besides, what are you gonna do? Start randomly interrogating people you've known for years?"

"Ha, maybe." He adopts an impassive, interrogation face, but there is amusement sparkling in his eyes now. "Detective Beckett, any lies you want to confess to?"

"Yes." The word is out there, between them, before she knows she has said it, and it's awful and true and the very worst timing, like always - because he is hurting and needs her and she is still raw from her own insecure jealousy and Sophia's words, the kick from behind that left her sprawling.

"What?" His face is still half amusement, like he cannot believe it could be anything but a joke, that she would break his trust. She has to run, then, so she stands and walks away from him to his bookcase, staring at the titles but not seeing them. When she turns back to him his face is dark and unreadable.

"I'm sorry, Castle." It's all she has to offer, and she knows it isn't enough.

"You've been lying to me? About what?" Something in his face is resigned, like he suspects already, and she doesn't know if that makes it better or worse.

"I- about the shooting."

"You remember what I said to you."

"Yes."

"And you lied because you had just been shot and Montgomery had just died and whoever killed your mom was still out there and gunning for you and you were still with Josh and you didn't know where we stood after we fought and you couldn't deal with me saying that on top of everything else, so you lied and you pushed me away." His voice is flat, reticent.

"Yes." She's doing awfully, because it's his words doing her confessing, telling her story, like always. She wishes he would stand up and face her instead on sitting on the sofa, calmly cradling his now empty coffee cup.

"I understand, Kate." And suddenly she's angry, so fucking pissed that he's sitting there being so good and kind and understanding and in love with her when she's so selfish and broken. She had doubted it, before this moment – the voice in her head that now sounded so like Sophia's, saying it should remain a fantasy, that he said it when she was dying, caught up in the narrative. But the look on his face now, quiet and lost and in love makes her want to punch him or kiss him or scream, anything to make it go away because it's too good and it's too much and she can't.

"No, Castle, you do not get to do that, you do not get to sit there and be understanding when I hurt you, when I'm fucked up."

"You're not fucked up, Kate." He stands, starts toward her but she holds out a hand, keeping him away.

"Yes I am!" She's seething now, mad at him and herself and the world "I've been fucked up for a long time. And I try so hard, Castle. To deal with it, to move past it, to hide it, not think about it. And you just see past it and into me and you stick with me anyway. You always have, since the day I met you."

"And you're mad at me for that." It's not a question.

"Because I can't give it back, Castle."

"Oh." He deflates then, shrinking back into the sofa and the tug on her heart makes her lurch toward him, because – god – he thinks she saying she doesn't-

"Castle, look at me." She's desperate, kneeling in front of him, hands on his knees, eyes searching his because he's giving up and he can't, she won't let him, he has to wait for as long as it takes even though she can never ask that of him.

Blue eyes meet hers, full of an ache even he couldn't find the words for, and she's suddenly aware how close they are, how fast her heart is beating against everything, how many layers of want are settling in her stomach, fresh and familiar.

She touches her forehead to his, feeling the magnet pull, her limbs trembling with it. "I'm trying." she whispers "Don't give up on me now".

They stay there, feeling it, breathing each other, and she wishes he would make a move, forward or back, anywhere but stuck here. But the move was always hers to make, and she finds herself once again frustrated that he's such a _good_ man, that he doesn't push her – in a hotel suite in LA, at his book party, away to the Hamptons for a weekend, when he takes her hand.

She stands, moves away from the longing to think, trusts he knows she will return. He stands too, and they face each other, staring. He's so beautiful, the early evening sunlight streaming over his dark hair and strong shoulders, and she's suddenly breathless.

"I can't give up on you, Kate. I love you." That's the truth of it and she flies to him, then, kissing him fiercely because she doesn't know what else to do. Their bodies knock together and it's hot and wet and aggressive, even more desperate than the last time because he has to know, she has to tell him without words what he means to her. She bites his lip, hard, and it's his turn to moan, her hands in his hair and his hands under her shirt, tracing patterns of fire over her lower back. She is full of lust and love and blazing want and it feels so fucking good that she believes they can do this, do anything.

They part and stare at each other, breathing hard. His hands stay on her hips, and the prickling heat that washes over her skin makes her unable to think.

"I- is this a good idea?" He breathes.

"No." she replies, and pulls him to her again, claiming his mouth, kissing him over and over.

"Kate" he sighs, pulling away from her again "I know, you're not ready. I'm not going to push-"

She bites his throat because he's making it about her, again, and it should be about him, about them.

"Castle" she bites her lip and steps towards him leaning her mouth up to his left ear, the way she did after that damn first case, but with none of the bravado – she just cannot look at him. "I- you know. Me too. You know."

"I know." he says, but his face is full of joy and trust and wonder, like he can't believe she's there is front of him, that she has to kiss him again. It's soft this time, languid, like they have forever.

When they break apart again he grins at her and she can't help but smile back, amused and a little exasperated at how pleased he is with himself and it's just so _them_ that her heart lifts.

"You wanna watch a movie or something?" Castle asks "Mother and Alexis should be back in a bit, you could stay for dinner, they'd like to see you."

She looks at him appraisingly as he sits back down on the couch, her mind still swirling with all that is between, that still needs to be said, and suddenly she doesn't need to say anything. He knows, he always has.

"Yeah," she says, settling down next to him "thanks Castle."


End file.
